Tim Washburn - Powerless

The giant ship shudders and a yellow flame lights the night sky. “What the hell?” Seaman Oliver shouts to his friend.

“Well, cuz, don’t appear to be no drill,” Diaz shouts back.

Against standard operating procedure, they drift to the rail so that they can get a better view of the three-thousand-pound Tomahawk missiles exploding upward from the bow of the ship. One after another, the TERCOM radar guidance–equipped missiles launch from their vertical launching system. The smoke from their turbofan engines washes across the deck of the ship, temporarily reducing visibility.

“Look.” Diaz points out to sea where other ships in their armada are launching the deadly cruise missiles. At over a million dollars a pop, it’s not long before fifty million dollars in weapons are streaking through the sky.

“Who the hell we bombing?” Oliver shouts.

“Hell if I know. But whoever it is, I’m sure glad that I’m not on the other end of this shit.”

The ship contains a mix of 122 missiles, and within minutes 20 Tomahawks have blasted from the deck of the USS Bunker Hill . The night sky is lit with missile after missile racing off to their targets. Shortly after missile launch, the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson begins launching her aircraft.

The F/A-18s streak into the sky as the smell of burned jet fuel envelops Strike Group One. There’s a continuous stream of aircraft being hurtled into the sky by the ship’s steam-powered catapult system.

“Look at those planes, Diaz,” Seaman Oliver shouts.

“They are loaded down with ordnance. Somebody is getting their ass kicked.”

“Who do you think it is, cuz?” Diaz asks.

“Hell if I know.”

Office of the Supreme Leader

President Rafsanjani stares at the sun cresting above the mountain peaks east of Tehran as he slumps in the rear seat of his chauffeured limousine. After a quick two-hour nap and a much-needed shower at home, he’s been summoned back to the supreme leader’s office.

Unfortunately, the president had chosen the worst possible two-hour window for sneaking in a nap. While he had been resting, Iranian troops along the front line in Iraq had been decimated by attack after attack from the Americans and Israelis. He turns from the serenity of the mountains and glances again at the piece of paper containing the projected death toll. He rakes a single hand across his face as the long black car pulls into the heavily fortified entrance to the ayatollah’s office. The car is halted and mirrors are run under both sides of the car. A soldier with a death grip on his Tondar MPT-9 submachine gun orders the windows down.

President Rafsanjani scoots forward in the seat as another guard appears on his side of the car. After a heated exchange between the president and the soldier, the gate is lifted and the car eases farther into the complex. Although a cold front had come in sometime during the night, offering a respite from the untenable heat, a bead of sweat forms on his brow when he steps out of the car. He mops his brow upon entering and comes face-to-face with a very grim General Safani, who gives him the tiniest of nods.

President Rafsanjani leans forward to whisper into the general’s ear, “What happened, Ahmad?”

The general glances around at the large number of security forces and steers President Rafsanjani toward a quiet corner. “What happened, Mr. President, is the sleeping bear has reawakened. The Americans and the Israelis unleashed a highly coordinated attack on our troops. Most of our command and control units were destroyed in the first few minutes and most all of our airplanes lie burning in the desert.”

The president grabs the general by the elbow. “What are you going to tell the ayatollah?”

“I’m not going to tell him anything,” General Safani hisses. “That’s your job. You and the supreme leader cooked up this foolish mission against my repeated protests.”

President Rafsanjani leans back and tugs on the lapels of his suit coat. “You are in command, General. This disaster falls on your shoulders for such poor planning.”

Safani turns away in disgust and, accompanied by two of his most trusted aides, shuffles down the hallway to the supreme leader’s office as if trudging toward the gallows. He glances back to see that President Rafsanjani is hurrying to catch up, no doubt eager to tell his side of the story first.

As before, a cleric is on hand to open the door. General Safani pauses before entering and turns to his most trusted aide. He reaches into his freshly pressed tunic and removes a standard white envelope. “Make sure my family gets this if something happens to me,” he whispers while handing the envelope to his aide.

Shocked at the implication, it takes a moment for the man to regain his composure before reaching a hand out to accept the envelope. The general turns away, runs a finger around the inside collar of his uniform, and squares his shoulders as President Rafsanjani brushes past.

The supreme leader is in a flurry of agitation as General Safani approaches the desk. The president is already seated in front of the desk, his head bowed as if he were a child being scolded.

“Tell me what happened, General,” the ayatollah says through clenched teeth. The general begins detailing the circumstances of the predawn battle until the supreme leader slams his hand on his desk.

“Enough excuses, General. You should have foreseen this attack. Where are our intelligence assets?”

“I tried to warn you about the—”

The ayatollah unleashes another verbal tirade. He jumps to his feet and paces the area behind the desk. His face is a deep crimson and the veins at his temples throb with every accelerated heartbeat.

General Safani, who hadn’t been offered a seat, stands and takes the withering assault as President Rafsanjani looks on. After a few moments the supreme leader collapses into his chair, having spent all the venom he could muster.

The respite doesn’t last as he lurches to his feet again. “Send more troops. Send every able-bodied man to the front lines. I will not lose this battle.”

“But, sir, most of our command structure is—”

“General, you are relieved of duty. I am placing you under house arrest,” the ayatollah says in a low, menacing voice. He turns his attention to President Rafsanjani.

“You are a coward. If it weren’t so easy for me to dangle your strings you would rot in a jail cell.”

The president hangs his head, his eyes focused on the intricate pattern of the priceless Persian rug beneath his chair.

“Put another general in charge. I don’t care who it is, but their success or failure will be a direct reflection on you. Keep that in mind as you make your selection.”

He waves his hand. “Get out. The next time I summon you here, Mr. President”—he emphasizes the title—“could well be your last trip if you have not destroyed the Jews.”

President Rafsanjani meekly stands from his chair and joins General Safani in leaving the office. Moving through the doorway, a pair of neckless uniformed Revolutionary Guards peels the general away, one at each elbow, as the president takes the long walk back to his car alone.

Dallas, Texas

The last rays of the sun are hovering on the edge of the horizon and the temperature is maybe ten degrees cooler as Zeke ventures through one of the seamier areas he’s ridden through. An outcropping of apartment buildings is butted up to the underside of the LBJ Freeway, occupying both sides of Preston Road. The fake, faded yellow stucco is flaking off most of the apartment buildings and the surrounding ground is hard-packed earth with tufts of weeds poking up at odd intervals. Window screens hang askew and the parking lot is littered with cars that look like they haven’t been driven in years. A few huddled groups of people linger around the front doors of several apartments.